


Nightmares of Falling

by Doilooklikeicareatall



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, I forgot this thing existed so I am finishing and posting it now, I made this fic WAAAY before season 3, Kissing, M/M, Reichenbach Feels, all inaccuracies can be blamed on that, hella sad, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:35:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doilooklikeicareatall/pseuds/Doilooklikeicareatall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes had become dark and shadowed with bruises from late nights, filled with tossing, turning, screaming his name in the middle of the night, trembling in fear of the constant nightmares of falling, constant falling. His skin had become sallow and took on a pale grey cast, he almost resembled the corpses he once used to examine.<br/>----<br/>John isn't doing so well without Sherlock. Luckily, Sherlock had come back just in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this is a fic from September 2013 that I wrote and forgot about, and I was going through my Google drive in search of an RP log, and found this (slightly unfinished, so I'm posting it in chapters while I get it done) in there.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, if you do, feel free to leave a kudos, or a comment telling me what you enjoyed!

In a near-empty flat on an oblivious street, a broken man sat, watching the fire in the hearth. It flickered with a manic light, the light he had once seen in… _His_ … eyes, when he would finally get word of a case. He would bound about and laugh, so at odds with his regular cold disposition.

 

The once-whole man used to wake up to gleeful clamoring, groan, and sit up in bed, scratching his sandy blonde hair before groaning and getting up to go get his morning cup of tea. He would arrive downstairs to the sight of a cheerful (If you could ever really call _Him_ cheerful) mop of tousled raven-dark curls, flushed face amongst the expanse of pale skin, usually shrouded in a blue dressing gown, with his signature crystalline eyes of that indeterminate color, always shifting, always changing. That morning, and every morning that he got a case, they were a brilliant verdigris, sparkling with mirth and flickering with that light. In that rumbling baritone, he would say to the man, “Hurry up and drink your tea, we need to get going.” His eyes would light up even more as he would continue, “We have a case, John! This is no time to be puttering around with your tea!” Then he would grin widely, a grin the man would never fail to wearily reciprocate, never able to resist that infectious smile.

 

It had been two years, seven months, one week, four days, and…. fifteen hours.. since the incident on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s, and his subsequent demise. twenty-two thousand, seven hundred and fifty six hours since the light in the man’s eyes had faded to only a dull shadow. One million, three hundred and sixty five thousand, three hundred and sixty minutes since he had become a shell, a lifeless puppet named John Hamish Watson.

 

His eyes had become dark and shadowed with bruises from late nights, filled with tossing, turning, screaming his name in the middle of the night, trembling in fear of the constant nightmares of falling, constant falling. His skin had become sallow and took on a pale grey cast, he almost resembled the corpses he once used to examine. His once sand blonde hair had been heavily threaded with grey, wrinkles and bags changing his face, hollowing his cheeks.

 

He had woken up from another nightmare that night, limping downstairs for a relaxing cup of tea, the usual medicine for the nightmares. It was a lot better than his original standby. He would lean against the counter, sipping the tea slowly.

 

He glanced over at the cane, resting against the worn armchair, just in case the limp returned, and, on the worst of nights, when he would scream and shake, and tremble, choking out a name he couldn’t think anymore.. His hands, once so strong and capable, now trembled visibly, slightly spilling the milky liquid as he drank it, apparently a sign of repressed trauma, according to Ella. His eyes still stung with the memory of bitter tears. He seemed to be crying a lot… especially after the Incident. He had taken to calling that after a while to stop having the reaction he seemed to get every time he thought about it, about him too much.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

_Tremors shook a pale, washed-out form, forcing him to the floor of the bathroom, curled in the corner. High keening cries, like wails, ricocheted off the stained white tiles. It sounded like it came from somewhere far away, but the broken man knew, as always, that the cries came from him. As the cries stopped, the soft whimpers of a name that he tried to forget finally began to fall from his lips, wide unblinking eyes taking in the solid shape of the gun in front of him, trembling fingers fumbling at the safety, flicking it on and off, on and off… Empty orange prescription bottles, half-empty and spilled bottles of whiskey littering the floor, all forming a bittersweet mosaic of life and how it had been so cruelly stolen by the loss of another._

 

\----------------------------------------

 

The flat had slowly become cold, sterile-feeling. All of _his_ things, the equipment, the random things he kept around the sitting room, even the skull, had been carefully stored away in Ms. Hudson’s spare room while the broken man was at work and not able to witness it. Nothing remained there to remind the broken man of his previous flatmate and best friend except for the leather armchair he kept across from his own, and _his_ bedroom, which the man had left almost entirely untouched, from the sparse furniture and wardrobes, to the dressing gown that still hung on the back of the door.

 

Sometimes, the man would stand in the doorway, and would tentatively inhale. He would smell the smell of stale air and an untouched room, intermingled with the sharp mint-and-vanilla scent that _he_ had left behind. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he would walk in, sit at the end of _his_ bed, and put his head into his hands, shaking silently with tears and tremors he could no longer control.

 

It was these tearful moments that had begun to define the man’s life now, having no other reason to leave his flat. He had worked at the surgery for only three weeks after the Incident before one patient finally broke him.  

 

\------------------------------------------

 

_It was a quiet day, on the man’s final day at work. Peaceful and nice, until a call suddenly came and called him in to help with an operation._

_The victim was around 28, hair a pale orange, nearly blonde. He had been admitted with a severe wound to the side of the head, something that made the man immediately apprehensive, but as always, he quietly soldiered on, knowing this was the only tie he had left to_ Him _. His military training took over, and he flitted about quickly, cold clarity momentarily clearing his head of all thoughts. The patient had not died yet, going by the labored pants issuing from his mouth as the broken doctor tried to fix the man (doing the things he couldn’t do, wasn’t able to do, to save_ him _). He knew the result was inevitable, but still felt a sense of defeat when the patient finally died with a slow, shuddering breath. When he asked for the cause of death, Sarah just gave him a grim smile as she murmured softly, “He jumped off a fifteen-story building, John.” This is what made John finally snap, walking back to his office- well, more like stumbling blindly, eyes already stinging- and collapsing into his chair. He couldn’t remember much else, beyond the anguished echos of_ His _name being screamed._

_The next morning, he woke to a text from Sarah, saying it was best that he remained away from the surgery, until he would no longer be triggered by anything that reminded him of_ the Incident _. The broken man wearily agreed to himself before collapsing back into bed, choking out heavy sobs, knowing everything that tied the broken man to_ Him _, all that had tied him to the world outside his flat, had been severed, and he had no reason to leave now._

 

\-----------------------------------------

The broken man finally finished his tea and limped painfully over to his armchair, slumping quietly, closing his eyes with a shaky release of breath. "Maybe, I should just move out. There's nothing here for me now, nothing but broken memories and a broken man."  A painful, gravelly chuckle. "But I couldn't leave now. Not until he's gone. Until the lingering scent of mint and vanilla fades from the rooms. Until I stop seeing him when I wake up, smiling and so damn real-looking, only to try touch him and realize that he's not there. I can't leave this flat until I stop loving him." A final soft release of breath before he settled into the worn out armchair, hoping this time, he would sleep without the nightmares of falling.


	2. A Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home. John reacts in ways both expected and unexpected (at least for Sherlock).  
> \----  
> Okay, this summary is being written at 2am, spare me pls and enjoy the chapter

The silent steps up to the flat a man had once shared were taken with tentative feet and soft, shaky breaths.

A scarf was unwound from a slender, pale neck and draped over the side of a leather armchair he had fond memories of sitting in.

A dark coat was slowly taken off as well, draped on the back of the chair before he sat down fluidly, silently, so as not to disturb the man sitting across from him, fast asleep.

The pale moon silhouetted a paler form, a form that sat, fingers steepled under his chin in a familiar gesture, as his eyes took in the other man's form.

 

_Dark bruising under the eyes. Troubled sleep, probably for a year or so.  More visible signs of ageing, probably due to stress or added trauma. Hands were trembling, even in sleep. Probably had gained a drinking problem, though not too severe, not severe enough to cause the telltale yellow cast to one's features. Cane propped up in close reaching distance, indicating the return of that damned limp, probably due to an event that had recently affected him severe-_

_Oh._

 

The deductions stopped abruptly as the man finally understood the situation, a pained expression spared for the man in front of him, and a rumbling whisper, "I've missed you too, John."

Then he relaxed in his chair, accustoming himself to the familiar feeling, as he waited for his faithful blogger to awaken.

~----~

 

As the eyes of the broken man opened, he blearily took notice of the tall, lanky figure sprawled in the leather armchair, observing him shrewdly.

It was _Him_ again. Like every morning. Though, this time, he looked slightly different, without his coat and scarf, without the manic smile he usually wore when John awoke to him.

A weary smile spread across his face as he mumbled fondly, “Hello again.”

 

A confused expression crossed the apparition’s face (Something that had never happened before) and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, considering the man in front of him silently. His deduction face.

 

“You think I’m not real. A hallucination. You must see me fairly often to perpetuate this erroneous facade.” His tone is calm. Curious.

 

“You assume that I am a figment, an imagined apparition, but I can assure you, John, that I am definitely not. I am here, corporeally, as much as you think otherwise. I know you’re most likely upset, and I fully understand, but my… assumed.. death was necessary, and if you allow me to explain why, you will understand.”

 

A full grin replaces the weary smile. “God, you haven’t even said hello yet, and you’re already blathering on again. And, I know for certain you can’t be real, no matter how real it always seems. How you could be anything but a creation of my own mind after.. what happened…”

The words trail off and the smile fades as quickly as it came.

 

“Then how can I prove it to you?” The words are feather soft, gliding across the air and wrapping itself around the broken man like the gaudy blanket _he_ had once wore, the night after they had met.

 

A soft, melancholy smile. “Touch me or something. You’ve never been able to normally. God knows I’ve asked enough for it. I know, with you, a kiss is too much to hope for. But that’s just the way it is with you. Always has been. Even though I constantly beg, in the middle of the night when you wake me from my nightmares, you’ve never even so much as-”

He was abruptly cut off by the soft, yet insistent press of lips against his own.

 

_He_ kissed slowly, full of hesitation, trying to stretch out the contact he had craved for so very long. He moved his lips in a reassuring murmur against the still partly broken man’s dry and chapped lips.

 

The partly broken man’s eyes had widened at the initial contact, but, as time went on, he closed his eyes, making a soft contented sound against the other man’s lips. His arms were fisted tightly at his sides, still slightly tense from the shock of the scene. He refused to lift up his arms and touch the man, afraid he would just shatter the illusion, leaving himself empty and wanting.

 

The action that finally reassured the almost whole man was the slender, long-fingered and winter-pale hands and fingers, skimming along his arms and shoulders, up his neck, and, finally, cupping his cheeks and pulling him closer. Those long violinist fingers brushed comfortingly along the tear tracks staining the almost whole man’s face. He hadn’t noticed himself crying until now. A soft gasp issued from one’s mouth into the other, before the crying one pulled away to stare, awestruck at… at _Sherlock_. He could finally think that name, and not have to break down like he had in the early stages after the Incident. He looked at Sherlock, and what he looked upon made his heart flutter and race in a way it never had before.

 

Those eyes of indeterminate colour, now a pale aqua, slowly getting darker to match his slightly large pupils. They were bright with tears, something he had never seen on Sherlock, not once. (Unless you count… the Incident. But the man was determined to stop thinking about that.) They were also flickering with that manic, beautiful light that _John_ \- he could finally be John now that he had Sherlock back and could become whole again- had missed more than he thought he would. Hair that had been cut, no, shaved off, unevenly at that, so it was growing back a little strangely, some of the inky black curls longer and more unruly than others, but it was duller and a little more limp than John had once remembered. His pale skin under his charcoal grey dress shirt was practically translucent compared to the creamy alabaster his skin had once been. It was littered with small scars here and there, from his chest and up to his neck, where John vaguely noticed a barely noticeable burn mark in the junction between neck and shoulder.

His lips, enticing with the ridiculous Cupid’s bow that he had once been so fascinated by, were still the same, but now they trembled slightly.

A quiet exhalation left those shaky lips as a rumbling baritone murmured, “I hope you understand why I had to go, and how sorry I am for leaving like I did. I.. I never thought that it would affect you as greatly as I am told it did. I honestly didn’t think you would miss me too much.”

 

John had remained silent throughout the explanation, but now he got up, leaning forward slightly with a slight grimace at the movement on his leg, and pressed his forehead to the other man’s, silently relishing the feeling, breathing softly and deeply, committing the feeling to memory.

 

The firm, comforting press of skin to skin, the sweet and sharp scent of mint-and-vanilla that still clung to Sherlock after all of this time, calming him down immensely like it never had before, because this time he was here.

 

Then the blonde raised his head and pressed his lips softly to where his forehead had just rested.

His voice was steady when he responded to the dark-haired man’s earlier words, steady and soft, not a whisper, but not regular volume.

“Of course I missed you, you daft git. You were my best friend, how could I not miss you? It’s been almost two years, and I’ve been bloody lost without you. Lost without the stupid experiments, the amazing deductions about people you’ve just laid eyes on, the freaky way you managed to see through absolutely everyone and everything, including me. I was so bloody lost, Sherlock.. I was so close to.. to just giving up..”

“Do you think I would have let you go that easily, John? After what I did, I couldn’t just leave you to.. to do that.. not if you thought I was gone. I would have saved you, no matter what.” The words were barely a whisper but his tone was fierce, determined. John heard them and smiled.

 

“I know.” The words were as quietly spoken as Sherlock’s, filled with so much warmth and hope, that Sherlock thought nothing of it when John finally pulled away after what seemed like hours.

 

That was probably also why he was so taken aback by the strong punch to the face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know whether to apologize for all the italics or not, if they bother you, do leave a comment telling me and I can remove them, if there's anything I did wrong in it, any grammar mistakes, I apologize, it was un-beta'd and not britpicked, so... yep.
> 
> Even so, hope you enjoyed, next chapter will either be up right after this or in the morning! (or not, I am notoriously known for being terribly bad with deadlines: see my Christmas series for proof, it's not even done yet.)
> 
> Have a lovely day!!


End file.
